Tired
by poetanddidntknowit34
Summary: Requested by Anonymous: "Could you do an imagine where Daryl and the reader slowly become friends. And he eventually finds out that the reader has depression even though she tries to hide it. And one night she is having a very bad night and he comforts her and tells her she's beautiful. It can end with them being in a relationship or not, it doesn't matter to me. Thank you so much!
It had been years since the world had gone to shit. Years of running, of hiding, and of fighting. Alone. And you weren't sure how much more you could take of it. Years of scavenging, of trying to hunt, and years of contemplating simply lying down and letting the walkers do what they do best.

But then you stumbled on the prison.

It had been an answered prayer; a warm bed, a safe place to eat, and other people to talk to. A real miracle in the middle of hell. Rick was nice to you, Carol took it upon herself to patch you up that first night, and you and Beth got on like a house on fire. But those friendships were nothing compared to the strange relationship you were developing with Daryl Dixon.

It started on a Tuesday. At least, you think it was a Tuesday. You'd been trying to keep track ever since it happened, but you may be off by a few days. Daryl was cleaning his crossbow in the front yard of the prison during breakfast, and you had come out to get some fresh air while you ate. "Tomato?" You offered, sitting cross-legged on the ground next to him. He grunted in return. "Suit yourself." You say, shoveling in the baby tomatoes as quickly as possible. It had been years since you'd had fresh produce. "They're really fresh. Hershel and Rick grew them."

He paused. "Ok. I'll take one." He reached out to the outstretched bowl and took a tiny tomato, popping it in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. "Fresh." Was all he said, and went back to cleaning the bow.

"It's a real pretty morning." You say, munching on the granola in your bowl more slowly than the tomatoes. "What are you gonna do with it?"

"Go hunting. Saw a few deer last night. They can't be far."

Your eyes lit up. You'd always wanted to learn to hunt. "Can I come?"

Daryl stopped cleaning and looked up. You couldn't quite read the expression on his face, but it looked like a mixture of bewilderment and defiance. "Why?"

"I want to learn." You shrug. "If you'd rather be alone, I understand. I'm not going to push it. I was just wondering."

"You'll have to be quiet. Deer hears something human, and it scrams."

"I can be quiet."

"Can you?" He smiled, and you knew he was joking. "You've done nothing but talk since you got here."

You laughed, but as soon as you started, you felt the familiar lead curtain slam down behind your eyes, and you were suddenly sad. Exhausted, too. But this was nothing new. Ever since you were young, your depression had tried to steal your joy. Succeeded, even. But you were an expert at faking now. So, you smile and say, "Yeah, that's uh, that's true."

Daryl's brow furrowed in confusion. "You OK?"

Shit. You didn't think your shift had been that noticeable. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Are you sure you want to go hunting, then?" He stood and held out a hand to help you up. "We'll be walking almost all day."

"Yeah, I'm sure. Exercise will wake me up." And you followed him down to where Glenn and Carl were guarding the front gate.

Weeks passed, and you and Daryl started becoming inseparable. He was teaching you to track, and you went out almost every morning to look for deer and wild pigs for Carol to cook up. You felt better when you were out in the woods with him, and you hadn't had a low since that first morning. It felt good.

But it didn't last. It never did.

You couldn't get out of bed that morning. It felt like too much effort. It would take too much energy to get up, get dressed, and walk down to breakfast. So you stayed put, staring bleakly at the bricks next to your bed.

"Hey, Y/N, are your coming hunting or not?" Daryl stuck his head in your cell and saw you staring blankly ahead.

"Not. Sorry." You pulled the covers over your head and turned over.

"You OK?" He started to come into the cell, but you curled up tighter.

"I'm not feeling well. My stomach hurts." Not a total lie. The thought of having to explain that you just felt pointless and you didn't want to be a burden to him that morning was making you a little nauseous.

"Should I get Hershel or Carol to take a look?"

"No. I just want to sleep."

"OK. Feel better." And he was gone.

You didn't move the whole day as you slept on and off. It felt as though you could sleep for days and not feel rested enough to get out of bed. Meanwhile, the sun moved in an arch outside of the windows across from your cell door, and soon it had dipped low enough that you knew it was time for dinner. But you didn't make an effort to get up.

"Y/N?" Daryl was back. "You feeling any better?"

You pull the covers back over your head in response.

Much to your surprise, Daryl came over and sat at the end of your bed. "My mom had really bad depression. She would be totally fine one minute, and then you could see the flicker in her eyes as the rug was swept out from under her and she was suddenly really sad." It was eerily quiet in the room for a long time. "When I was really little, she had trouble getting out of bed some days, and my brother Merle had to try to make us food and to get me to school. I always felt really helpless." Silence again. "But she didn't have to do it alone. She had me. And you do, too."

The tears were suddenly falling freely. You were tired. Tired of hiding, of being sad, of doing it alone. You sat up quickly and threw your arms around Daryl's neck, sobbing into his shoulder.

"It's OK." He said, petting your hair soothingly. "You'll be OK."

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